


Instruments of Self-Destruction

by lynxthorn



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: A Lot of Depression, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Light Pining, M/M, Self-Harm, also inspired/based on a song? but not quite songfic?, he will get better i swear, i'm gay and therefore i've HAD IT with bad endings, it's a sort of an analysis of what jean is going through on the bumpy road to recovery, jean is having Issues(tm), jerejean will be endgame obv
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-08 23:31:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16438934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynxthorn/pseuds/lynxthorn
Summary: Despite leaving the Nest and becoming a Trojan, Jean was not about to be instantly fixed. Perhaps he would have to get much, much worse, before being able to get better. To be given freedom and sovereignty over one's life and body is unmistakably a good thing, but also a risk, if one possesses as much suppressed disdain for living as Jean Moreau does.





	1. Hoping one rogue spark lands in my direction

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! I'm Lynx, long-time consumer in the AFTG fandom, but first-time creator. This is my first ever fic here, and it's a little exploration of everybody's favorite depressed Frenchman, post-Nest. It's based in part on a song, but I'm populating it with my own little ideas of how and what would be going through Jean's head here and there.
> 
> The work isn't beta'd, so if you see any particular mistakes, it would mean so much if you would point them out.
> 
> You can check the end notes for trigger warnings (I think it's kinda practical to put them there, since they technically are sort of a spoiler?)

A noisy thumping beat carried from the lounge in the Trojans' dorm, muffled by the thin walls between the small kitchen and the lounge itself.

_He's playing that Diamond woman's music again._

Jean sat by the kitchen workspace, part watching Dermott make some sort of dip he'd never seen before, and part staring into nothingness. Today was not a particularly good day for Jean Moreau. Or a particularly good week. Month. Arbitrarily long interval of time. Purple eyebags lent a certain frightening quality to Jean's already lethal glare. Right now, Jean simply did not want to be around people, but alas, Jeremy had roped him into helping with the Trojans' semimonthly party. Teambuilding purposes, stress relief, controlled drinking space - these were all perfectly valid reasons Jeremy continued to serve to Coach Rhemann, even though there was no particular need; Rhemann would allow almost anything, as long as it was responsible and controlled.

And so the Trojans would gather every two to four weeks to have some fun, relax and unwind from all the 'stress' that would build up in the meanwhile. Loud music, a number of people larger than one, alcohol. Even though he had avoided every single one of these parties so far, Jeremy's pleading finally got to Jean, who wanted to be quite literally anywhere but there.

"Earth to Jean," Laila called out, her tone implying she had been calling for a while now, "dice the garlic, will you? I'm chopping the peppers, so it would really speed up the whole process."

Jean blinked twice at the knife lying on the workstation, and slowly grasped it with a careful palm. The weight of the blade anchored him in place for a few unnaturally long seconds, which ended as soon as he could take in a deep breath. Memories of a few practice sessions with Josten welled up to remind him that, in his world, knives have never really been used the way most people would use them.

"This knife is too large for garlic. Do you have a paring knife?" he asked, regaining his composure as swiftly as ever.

"I can get you a cleaver or a butter knife. Hmph, _paring knife_. How fancy do you think we are? Chop chop, Moreau, I need that garlic. Pun completely intended," Laila snarked back.

Jean said nothing, pulled back the sleeves of his black blouse, and got to chopping the garlic with careful, calculated motions. He pushed back unwanted memories the way only someone highly proficient in trauma suppression could do, but a phantom itch buzzed around the scars that crisscrossed his stomach. Jean's breathing became shallower and more frantic as the slices became faster and faster, until the last of the cloves vanished under the edge, and Jean dropped the knife onto the station immediately after.

"Shit, Jean, are you-"

"Heeey, guys, I just had the greatest idea of all times ever!" Alvarez yelped excitedly, almost breaking through the kitchen door, "we are going to make crème brûlée, and since that name has way too many accents, I'll count on Frenchie here to properly distribute them."

And indeed, Alvarez was carrying a crucible with a yellow mass inside it, ready to be converted into 'cream broo-lay'. as she had so eloquently stated. Jeremy followed her in, a large glass bottle of an unidentified brown liquid in hand. Alvarez wasted no time getting things prepared, ignoring Jean and Laila's not-quite-understanding stares. She put the crucible onto the workspace with such haste that it slid all the way across to Jean's finely chopped garlic.

Rummaging through the cupboards, she asked, "Laila, baby, sweetie, honey, where are those flat… fireproof… glass… bowl things I got you for our anniversary?"

"The ramekins?"

"Yes, those!"

"Third cupboard to your right." A knowing look in Laila's eyes signaled that this might just spell disaster. She turned to face Jean and gave him a short _you okay?_ look that he simply nodded at.

Jean moved to wash his hands of the garlic's sticky smell and excluded himself from the three-sided discussion on the flammability of rum and its applicability in making 'cream broo-lay'. The discussion quickly dissolved from 'three' into 'two plus one' and further into 'Sara Alvarez, you useless lesbian, that is way too much rum, oh god, let me do this'. Jeremy subtly eased his way into space right next to Jean, face bearing his trademark comforting smile.

"Jean, you okay? Alvarez just butchered the entirety of the French language, I can hear a mob already forming in Paris, ready to come for her. You never miss an opportunity to correct her." As usual, he offered up the answer to Jean's often utilized 'what makes you say that' before he even had a chance to say it. How considerate of him.

Jean felt vulnerable in front of Jeremy whenever he did that. Jean spent many years crafting an armor of… unknowability, a cover for all his thoughts and secrets to protect them from ( _Riko_ ) those who'd abuse it, even if ( _he's not Riko_ ) Jeremy would never take advantage of Jean in that way. He had often felt the same way when talking to Renee, and the feeling of being understood, being predictable and calculable in someone's mind, it filled him with unease. When Jeremy began picking up on all of Jean's deflection methods and casual little lies, it made speaking to him quite uncomfortable. But only for a little while.

"I am fine, Knox." _Merde. I am turning into Josten._

"You sure?" Jeremy bore his feelings on his face and honesty in his eyes. Jean could feel the genuine concern that lined his voice with a sweet undertone that tugged lightly at Jean's heartstrings.

Before Jean could mask his currently distraught state with a witty remark, Alvarez interrupted them, commanding attention onto the workspace in front of her. "Alright, lady and gentlemen, twenty ramqueens-" "Ramekins." "-stand before me. It is their last chance to escape the chefs, and save themselves from caramelization. The time has come for you to flambée… for! Your! Lives! Good luck, and _don't_ fuck it up."

Jeremy clapped vivaciously while Laila crumpled into a laughing heap. Jean said nothing, not feeling quite able to muster up even a malicious grin or snark-laden quip.

"The rules of engagement are really quite simple. Step one - spray a liberal amount of rum onto the custard until it looks like a really nasty euphemism," Alvarez demonstrated with a circular motion of the bottle.

"Step two," Laila butted in, "ignite the rum with your decidedly non-heterosexual flamboyance. If you have no fresh flaming gayness in you, store-bought is fine." As soon as the bluish flame went up, Jean's eyes affixed to it. He could only watch the flickering flames for a split second before Jeremy spoke up.

"Step three - utilizing a borderline racist stereotypical horizontal ninja motion, swipe the lid sideways until you cover the entire bowl. Hold for a few seconds, aaand voilà! Your cream got broo-laid!"

After all the laughter died out, the three settled into a simple rhythm of making the dessert, while Jean just watched from the sides, not feeling up to interacting that much. He often resigned to watching them from the margins. Jeremy, Laila, and Alvarez had their own tempo, and despite their fervent denial, Jean felt like an outsider observing them. A lonely asteroid orbiting a trio of stars. Jean was never one much for pathos, but on days when he felt less functioning than usual, the thoughts and analogies came on their own.

He felt the low creeping up his spine after lurking around him all day. Jean knew this was an inevitability, but he still wanted to avoid it happening around… other people. A sinking sensation began in what he imagined to be the center of his head, and made its way down into his chest. Jean's shoulders slumped by an infinitesimal fraction of an inch. His face, already an effectively permanent scowl, rearranged imperceptibly around his jaw muscles. The light felt just too bright for comfort, and the clattering noises of the three Trojans meddling with dessert reverberated through his eardrums too aggressively. He needed to get out of there, to return to the safety and quiet of his room, this was too much, too much of everything, too much o-

"Jean?" Jeremy made a small step towards Jean, a look of worry and concern affixed to his wonderful face. _He is so beautiful._

Before Jean could even say anything, Alvarez approached him, glass of rum in hand. "Jean, baby, you need to join us. We can't have our favorite Frenchman feeling left out, now can we?" He took the glass with an invisible tremor. The surface of the liquid oscillated in an imperceptible rhythm set by his heartbeat.

Jean took the lighter from the table with his left hand, and began slowly glazing the yellow cream with rum. _This should not be so hard. Stop shaking. Stop-_ A disgusting crunching noise spread as the glass in his hand broke, crushed by his almost clenched palm. The cool, wet feeling of alcohol enveloped his skin. Jean felt himself shutting down and completely switching to autopilot. Before the shards of glass even settled on the floor beneath, Jean's left hand brought the lighter to his rum-laden right hand. He flicked his thumb.

Blue flames ghosted across his skin, like a glove that threatened to detach itself and run away. The wispy fire made Jean's heart shiver with an unknown emotion that wracked his entire being for a small eternity that lasted less than a second. The shiver was there as Laila and Alvarez shouted, and it muted their voices into background white noise. The shiver was there as a wet cloth was quickly wrapped around his hand and Jeremy's panicked shouting joined the commotion, only a faint whisper above the static. The shiver was there as Jeremy's ( _warm, gentle, kind_ ) hands rubbed a burn ointment onto Jean's ( _cold, hot, painful_ ) hands in the quiet of their room. The shiver was still there as Jean lay in his bed a whole three hours later, pretending to sleep, with Jeremy forgoing the party in order to keep an eye on him.

Some bullshit story about passing out and fatigue and involuntary twitches was quickly spun to explain their absence from the party. Laila's garlic and pepper dip was eaten within twenty minutes. The crème brûlée was a total hit. The emotion behind the shiver slowly settled into the core of Jean's being as he regained control of his own racing thoughts.

For the following three days, Jean would often find himself flicking the lighter he had pocketed after the incident. His fingers would dance with the flames in a waltz of self-destruction and introspection. Once he had inflicted a near-serious burn onto the skin that covered his phalanges, he stopped dancing with his fingers. Small papers took their place. And then more papers. And then papers with words ( _Moriyama, 3, Raven_ ) on them. And then a history book with covers that brought back certain memories ( _that Kevin used to cover his eyes with when Riko brought in Jameson to fuck me the second time_ ). After that came a chair that Jean threw out the window, and then picked up and carried onto the parking lot, where he watched it burn until the early hours of the dawn.

By the time Jeremy found out and pleaded with Jean to stop this before he hurt himself, the unknown emotion holding Jean's rib cage together had already been demystified. The shiver that came with every spark and every flicker was a such a pure and complex and powerful feeling that it tore Jean apart when he promised to stop ( _because Jeremy is beyond irresistible, how could I say no when he looks at me with those warm brown eyes_ ).

The shiver was Power.

It was also Control.

But most importantly, and most painful to tear away from, the shiver was unmistakably Comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: pyromaniac behavior, self-inflicted burns
> 
> Please leave a comment below, it would honestly mean the world to me to have feedback, so I could polish this further as I write the next few chapters. They haven't been fully written yet, but I do have the entirety of the fic planned out, so please, use this opportunity to influence my writing into being better :)
> 
> Oh, yes, and the song in question is "Smoking Section" by St. Vincent. The song's structure and lyrical content directly influenced the structure and content of this fic, so it's worth mentioning. (Also one listen will be enough to show what these instruments of self-destruction actually are).


	2. When you wander in and start to flail about...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, it's Lynx, and I finally finished this chapter. It really took some, uh, effort out of me.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, so I'd appreciate it if you could point out any mistakes! :)
> 
> Trigger warnings (and more commentary) can be found in the end notes.
> 
> Enjoy!

Distorted echoes of cheerful voices mixed with watery noises made by a raucous band of Trojans splashing around the indoor swimming pool. The on-campus training facility usually required a good justifiable reason to gain free entry, but Jeremy worked his magic with Coach Rhemann and somehow provided them with access to the pool every once in a while. Leave it to Captain Sunshine to spin the world around his finger without even noticing it.

The only source of illumination in the area were the underwater lowlights that gave the whole chamber a subdued, neon-purple-bluish coloration. To Jean, it looked like a surreal dream. He sat on the edge of the swimming pool, keenly observing the way the lights danced in synchronicity with the ripples on the water. The pattern of light and darkness twirling around each other felt like an inverted and mirrored image of the fire he had been observing just as keenly for the past two and a half weeks. He wanted to reach out into the glowing lines, but water was still a point of conflict inside Jean's head.

The wet, watery sounds brought back unwanted memories ( _everything brings back unwanted memories, he ruined my life, he ruined anything that could possibly be enjoyed_ ), so Jean did his best not to pay heed to auditory input and instead focus on sight. Lines of light. Ripples. Shadows. Jeremy's face. Jeremy's face that was suddenly in Jean's field of vision and moving its mouth.

"-sorry I dragged you out here, I really shouldn't have pushed you into doing this, it's obvious you're not having fun, and-"

"It is not a problem. I simply do not enjoy the water," Jean said in a nonchalant manner.

"If you want to leave, nobody will-"

"I choose to sit here. Knox, I am fine," _Again, the red devil speaks through me,_ "stop worrying and enjoy yourself while you are here."

Even in the weak, dim lowlight, concern obviously contorted Jeremy's face. He propelled himself closer to the pool wall, and propped his elbows up onto the side, looking at Jean ( _with those dark eyes, like chocolate, like a forest_ ). His lips moved ever so slightly, the way he always did when thinking of what he was going to say, as if he was revising the words through mouthing them out. Jean knew Jeremy tried really hard to accommodate Jean's sensitivities, tried his hardest to be gentle with him ( _to avoid asserting dominance_ ), so he wouldn't regress him in any way.

Jean nudged his knee against Jeremy's elbow, in what he assumed was a physical method of reassurance. If verbal methods failed, perhaps non-verbal ones would suffice. "Go. Swim. Have fun. Stop worrying about me."

"You sure?"

"Yes." Jean then tried to mimic Jeremy's reassuring smile, but felt himself fail miserably at it. He felt certain muscles in his cheeks tugging at the edges of his lips, but that was all he could muster. _A broken lamp could never mimic the sun._

Something in Jeremy's eyes changed in response to Jean's miserable failure at a genuine smile ( _after all, how genuine could it be?_ ) but he couldn't quite discern what it was.

Jean wondered if Jeremy could notice the itch to reach for a lighter in his hands. Whether it showed on his face. In his posture. If anybody could see that crack in Jean's practiced mask, it would be Jeremy or Renee. Perhaps even Josten, if he somehow made the connection to his own neurotic cigarette lighting. He studied Jeremy's bronze face hued by the pool lowlights to see if he was picking up on something, but before he could truly deepen his gaze, he noticed a long strand of hair sticking to the side of Jeremy's cheek. _Alvarez._ Jean reached with his right hand to remove the stray hair, but before he could, Jeremy's eyes widened by a minuscule length and a light gasp left his throat as he tried to pull back almost instinctively. Jean kept reaching. The world turned upside down.

_Splash._

Everything seemed vaguely purple and everything sounded vaguely muted, as if all the shouting came from a great distance. Jean felt chlorine stinging his eyes and water stinging his tongue, his throat, his lungs. A phantom texture of a linen towel that hadn't been there in quite a while swept across his face. Reacting upon instinct and instinct alone, Jean went perfectly still. Time appeared to halt as memories flooded his brain in concordance with the water flooding his airways. Ghosts of hands that once held his wrists in place reappeared and immediately took to their role.

Was this panic? Jean was sure he was desensitized to panic from waterboarding, considering how many times he had gone through it. His body refused to move in any direction but downwards, to a tiled floor that was supposed to be white, but to Jean's unsure vision, an infinite lightless void superimposed itself over it. The sinking felt eternal, as if he were steadily moving yet remaining in place. He remembered his posture usually being different, with his ( _concussed_ ) head pulled backwards, as ( _freezing_ ) water was poured onto the ( _fine_ ) linen that would then cling to his ( _broken_ ) nose and ( _whore_ ) mouth.

With a second gasp, desperate for air, the memory of linen on his face vanished. Jean felt like he was floating. The void in front of him seemed to raise up, eager to greet him into the nothingness he yearned for. _If nothingness could be felt, this would be it._ And yet, amidst all that nothing, in one split second, Jean was sure he felt… something. Something better than flicking a lighter.

A well-known shiver trembled through his heart.

Phantom hands were replaced by real, physical ones, and Jean was dragged out of the water and laid onto the cold, ceramic tiling. Wracked by a coughing fit, in a few aggressive bursts, he expelled all of the water that accumulated inside his abused lungs.

"He doesn't look like he needs CPR, but you might as well try."

"Sara! Not funny!"

Jeremy's ever-concerned face loomed above Jean ( _just within reach_ ). A few other concerned heads blurred at the edges of Jean's field of vision. With an empty ribcage and legs of lead, he tried to get up, but Laila and Alvarez held him in place and prevented him from changing position too swiftly. Many thoughts raced around his head, but they all felt like an unformed, undifferentiated swirl of colors and feelings and questions, rolling into one and diffusing into nothingness. This sense of confusion painted itself over words that came out of Jeremy's mouth, but Jean still heard them clearly.

"Jean? I'm going to go get you a change of clothes. You just stay put and I'll be back real soon, okay?" Jean could do little but nod.

He watched blankly as Jeremy turned away and walked off to the changing rooms. Laila then took to herself to shoo away everybody else while she took Jean to a nearby bench and sat with him.

"You almost drown and the first thing you do after that is ogle Jeremy's ass. Good to know you have your priorities straight, pun intended."

"I was not ogling Knox."

"Mhm. I mean, I wouldn't blame you. He's got the best butt on the team."

Jean, again, could do little but stare, head feeling too blurry to form coherent thought. A stretch of silence followed, background noise being provided by the Trojans splashing around the pool. Laila uncurled a string from her tasseled black swimsuit.

"Alright, Jean, I get that you don't want me asking, but I'll ask anyway. Are you okay? You've been a little bit out of it for some time now."

"I fail to see what you have in mi-"

"Did you throw yourself in on purpose?" Laila's face was serious, but not without a gleam of concern behind her eyes. Another stretch of silence ensued as Jean weighed the words around his mouth, not trusting himself to determine what was true and what was not.

"… No. I did not," Jean failed to convince her, "it was an accident. There was a strand of hair across Knox's face. I tried to remove it, he moved back, I misjudged the reach, and fell in." The incredulity of this sequence of events made itself apparent to Jean as the words left his mouth.

"Okay, I'll buy it. For now." Laila's words carried a stern tone before shifting into something more genuine. "I'm just worried about you, Jean. I saw the bonfire you made on the parking lot a week ago. I know you've been through shit, and I see you have a lot of issues, and you could say it's none of my business, but you're not the first pyro or depressed person I've met. I want you to know that I'm always willing to listen. I get that you're closer to Jeremy, but I also get that's precisely why you tell him… nothing."

Jean turned his eyes away from Laila and thought of what to say. He didn't feel anywhere near close enough to Dermott to ( _show her all the scars, inside and out_ ) open that metaphorical can of worms. "I will think about it."

Laila merely hummed in agreement and restrained from prodding further, but her eyes never lost that concerned tint. A short while afterwards, Jeremy arrived in a hoodie, carrying a plastic bag with a towel and some clothing. Wet, squeaky, slapping noises followed every minute movement Jean made as he got up and followed Jeremy to the changing rooms. Wordlessly, he went through the white door after taking the bag from Jeremy. _At least thank him, you ingrate._ Jean breathed in and looked around the empty tiled room, as if he were looking for the graffiti to direct him what to say. Many different approaches whirled around his head, but not felt quite right. Jean turned and abruptly opened the door, startling Jeremy out of his ( _sweet, warm_ ) skin.

"Jeremy," _he is making a face, I should not have used his first name_ , "will you help me get out of these jeans? They are sticking to my skin, so they are quite difficult to take off." _That is by far the most idiotic sentence I could have uttered at this moment_.

Jeremy muttered out an unsure 'okay' and entered the changing room, his eyes notably not meeting Jean's. They remained turned away while he was tugging on the bottom of Jean's jeans, and while Jean was toweling his head, and while they walked back to their dorm in ( _awkward_ ) silence. Jeremy did not look at Jean once until it was time to hit the lights and wish each other a good night.

—

The awkwardness didn't linger until morning, and Jean was thankful for it. He sat in his bed, skimming a book, but not reading it, wondering if this was how Jeremy felt, concerned about overstepping Jean's minefield boundaries. Every now and then, he would cast a glance to the right, onto Jeremy's side of the room and onto his sleeping form. _I quite literally cannot take my eyes off of him_. _Pathetic_. After failing to maintain the charade of reading attentively, Jean got up and quietly made his way into the small bathroom. After a quick shower to slough off any phantom grime sticking to his pale skin, Jean simply sat in the bathtub as hot water washed over him. He felt it going over every scar that marred his body and soul, and he imagined it taking away a small, tiny fragment of the pain that resided beyond each of them.

Jean extended his body into a horizontal pose as far as he could, lying down onto the bottom of the white tub. His long legs had to remain bent at the knee so he could fit. A hand absently reached for the scars just above his knees, lightly tracing out their paths across pallid skin. Complete lines with very few discontinuities could be constructed across his entire body, like branching vines of trauma and pain and unpleasant memories. _An anthology of his cruelty is written in these scars._ Jean detached his hand from his collarbone and dropped it to his sides. It sank into the water that pooled around him, its level slowly rising, because he had accidentally placed his heel in position to almost perfectly seal the drain.

He stilled his leg so he wouldn't unseal it, and closed his eyes. He focused on the sensation of water on his skin, slowly rising, almost all the way over his chest. Jean felt a compression on his ribcage, and something… something familiar inside it. It began like a well-known shiver, but then metamorphosed into something different. Tranquility spread through his veins like tar, slowly but surely enveloping him from the inside. He closed his grey eyes and took one deep breath before he was submerged beneath the rising water surface. Weak illusions of panic appeared inside him, but he pushed them away so easily. He felt himself relax and slowly go limp.

 _This feels nothing like the waterboarding._ _It is peaceful. Comforting. It feels like floating. Like the ocean. I think I used to like this floating feeling. I think I used to like the water. I wish I could stay here. In this peace. Quiet. Warmth. I do not have to come up for air. I could stay here, if I wanted to._

The lights darkened in front of Jean's closed eyelids. He wondered if that would be it. A sudden yank at his midriff pulled him upwards, straight into Jeremy's firm embrace.

"Jean, please! No, don't do this to me!"

He felt wet fabric cling to his skin as he dripped water onto Jeremy's clothes at every point of contact between them. A surge of rigidity coursed through Jean's arteries as oxygen reentered his lungs. He clutched Jeremy by the shoulders and peeled himself away from him.

_Jeremy is crying._

Tears wracked Jeremy's face as his eyes took in Jean's pale form. He pulled himself closer to Jean, back into an anchoring hug that tethered Jean's heart in place.

"You were in there for two hours… Why do you want to die, Jean? Why…"

 _Two hours?_ Many answers spun in Jean's throat, but only one made it out.

"I just wanted to feel peace."

"Laila told me to keep an eye for you, and I thought I'd be prepared for anything, but the water was running and you weren't coming out and you were underwater and you were so pale and your lips were so blue and I just couldn't bear the idea of losing you like this, I…" Jeremy's rant trailed off into nothingness as he put himself in Jean's field of vision. He whispered a few more words, but Jean couldn't catch them.

 "I would have come out for air," Jean said weakly. _Liar._

Jeremy sniffled a few times before finally pulling away from Jean. "I'm going to make breakfast. Do you want to talk about this later?"

Jean looked away for a second, not wanting to see Jeremy's tears.

"Can we not speak of this at all? It was a mistake," he uttered shakily, "and I promise it will not happen again." He did not need to look at Jeremy's face to confirm it bore concern and worry and all sorts of emotions that were pointlessly wasted on someone like Jean.

Jeremy paused and swallowed a lump stuck in his throat, trying to recompose himself before replying.

"…Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings: drowning, a not-quite-suicide attempt, discussions of past torture via waterboarding
> 
> Yoooo, this was tough to write, but I weathered through it somehow.
> 
> Please, leave a comment below saying... literally anything, any kind of feedback is *good* for me.  
> Also, I was wondering about a particular thing here. I am aware that I juxtapose more serious scenes with, uh, less serious moments, and it'd really be great if you'd let me know if the transitions are okay or if they're too harsh.  
> I'm just a budding amateur writer, so it'd reeeeally do wonders if you could give me anything to improve on.
> 
> The next chapter isn't written, but it is more-less sketched out, so it'll definitely come in a timely manner :)
> 
> Oh, and y'all can find me at paranoir-antares.tumblr.com sooo feel free to drop by, leave a message, y'know
> 
> Alright, I'm off to bed now. Lynx, out!


End file.
